


To Stand on the Court

by Dogsocks



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Crying, I can't think of tags, M/M, Major Character Injury, Oikawa Tooru's Knee Injury, POV Alternating, POV First Person, a little fluff, kind of, only a little
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-02 05:41:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14537883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dogsocks/pseuds/Dogsocks
Summary: I hear it.You can actually hear it when I hit the ground, echoing in the empty gym. Something in my right knee goes, I can feel it go immediately, and I canhearit. The sound of my world ending.





	To Stand on the Court

**Author's Note:**

> So, Oikawa wears that knee supporter, and I've mostly heard it's because of a previous injury, so I wrote a tiny thing about when Oikawa hurt his knee at like 2am just because. Recently I was going through my untitled documents and seeing what they were when I found this and decided to actually finish it. It got way longer than I intended, but whatever.
> 
> Side note: I have no idea when he actually hurt his knee and I couldn't really find an answer anywhere so I just kinda wrote this with them in their first year of high school. I don't think you ever see the knee brace in middle school but I could be wrong. Either way, hope you enjoy!
> 
> UPDATE: I FOUND THE EPISODE. I found the episode with the flashback to Iwaizumi and Oikawa in middle school and he is wearing two knee pads, no brace. So whatever it was DID happen in high school.  
> 

People think I don’t try. Seriously. They act like I’m effortlessly good at what I do, effortlessly in shape, effortlessly attractive. Like it’s all so easy. Beauty, grace, skill, and strength in one body, and all without even trying. Without trying, yet I’m still called a try hard, an overachiever, a show off, the list goes on. It’s funny how quick people are to contradict themselves when it suits them. 

I’m just _perfect_. Perfect. What a god awful, stupid word. It’s funny how ‘perfect’ is used like an insult and ‘I hate you’ can be such a compliment sometimes. Seems just a little backwards, no? See, perfection is supposed to be what you strive for, the ideal, the goal, the top. God forbid you ever actually get close though, that makes you some kind of monster apparently. It’s kind of like a scam, advertising all this glory and praise when most of what you get is envy and hate. No one mentions that part.

All that hate, and I’m not even perfect to begin with. That’s just what people say to make themselves feel better. Honestly, it’s kind of annoying. Perfection doesn’t even exist. Everyone knows that. Not to mention that I could make a list a mile long about why I’m _not_ perfect, though nobody cares about that. It’s just so fucking stupid knowing people will always hate me for something I’m not, which also happens to be something I could not possibly be. If you want to hate me, go ahead. Be my guest. There’s a lot to hate, but do me a favor and have a better reason than your own suffocating self pity, alright? 

Look, I’m not gonna deny that I’m good at what I do. You can be really good at something without being perfect. It’s just the assumptions that get under my skin. Sure, I soak up the praise when I can, who wouldn’t? Recognition is nice when you deserve it, but it’s this common notion that I don’t work hard that bothers me. Then it’s like I don’t even deserve the recognition that I damn well earned. 

The truth of the matter is, I am not overflowing with natural talent, I know. Which is why I work so damn hard to be good at what I do, because I can’t just sit around and wait for it to happen. You know why? Because it’s not effortless or easy like everyone thinks, none of it is. It’s difficult, and stressful, and it takes willpower like you wouldn’t believe just to try and keep up. Just get out of bed, work a little harder, go faster, practice longer, one more, one more, one more. 

Maybe it looks like I don’t try that hard to some people. To be fair, not everyone knows how hard I work or has any way of knowing, but in reality, I take whatever I can get my hands on. I work out, I work my ass off at practice every day that I can and even some days that I can’t. I stay after at practice most of the time, I eat healthy, stretch, sleep enough most days, I even meditate. Anything I can do to give myself an edge, I do, because I’m not perfect, and I need to stay on top now more than ever.

This is my first year in high school, at a powerhouse school where only the best players even get to stand on the court, and I want that. I want that more than anything. Your year doesn’t matter here, just how well you can play. They want to have the six best players on that court. 

So I do what I do best. I work. And work. And work, and push my body as far as it’ll possibly go. Iwa-chan gets mad at me for it, but he always has. He still worries like an overprotective mother. What’s new? Besides, he’ll never understand. I have to do this. There’s no other choice for me besides getting left in the dust.

I’m not oblivious to the risks. Sometimes I can feel the strain of it all, the stress on my body. It’s not like I’m numb or something. My right knee gets the worst of it. I can feel the strain of overuse, the pain of constant wear. Of course it fucking hurts, but most people don’t know that and that’s the way I like it. I’m not a fan of the pity anyways. Sure I like attention, but I’ve never had a taste for that type. I don’t need people treating me like I can’t do as much and I don’t want people giving me an excuse that I can fall back on, because I know that I would. So I don’t give them the chance.

Some days it’s worse than others, but I always push through. In the end, pain is just a mental function of the brain. So I keep pushing. That’s all I can do and that’s how I was raised. 

It could be worse, really. It’s not even that bad most days, and when it is, I bite my tongue, relax my expression, and walk normally. I’ve gotten good at it. Works like a charm. Maybe it hurts, but no one sees that, not even Iwa-chan. He notices when I limp, so I do my best to keep that in check. 

I want to be on that damn court.

 

I get off the bus, refusing to limp and wandering into the gym with everyone else like tired sheep, though as they wind down, I know my night is only half over. We have a brief meeting about the practice match we just had. I actually got to play for a set since our starting setter was having an off day. Maybe he’s finally cracking under the pressure, like he can finally feel me coming up behind him, waiting for an opening. 

It wasn’t long, but I got a taste for it, being on a high school court. I’d always been on the court in middle school, but things get more serious the higher you go. Even the bad players aren’t actually bad anymore, just not as good as the rest. 

I want to stay there. I want to take his place. I want it so fucking bad. And I can sense it getting closer and closer. I want him to break.

All I can think about as the coach talks is how much more I can do, how much better I could be for this team. I know I could be better than our starting setter, I just have to do a little more. It’s simple. If I grow faster than he can, there will inevitably be a point where I pass him.

When we’re finally dismissed and I’m brought out of my own thoughts, we all get up and shuffle to the clubroom. People change, gather their things, whatever they have to do before they go home for the night. 

“Aren’t you gonna get changed?” Iwaizumi asks skeptically, glancing at me from where he finishes packing up his stuff. Even Mr. Grumpy and Intimidating looks softer right now, face dulled with exhaustion.

I hesitate with my response, but he doesn’t notice. “I think I’m gonna practice some serves, actually,” I finally reply, sugary as ever. Serving is something I can do on my own, a battle I can win by myself. I want that. I want to be necessary as a team player and as an individual.

“You should go home and get some rest, it’s already late,” Iwaizumi says with a sense of finality that starts to make me nervous.

“It’ll be fine, we stay late for practice all the time,” I assure him. It’s true, though usually Iwa-chan only stays so he can force me to go home earlier than I want to. I look at his tired eyes. If he doesn’t want to stay, he might not want me to. That could be a problem.

Iwaizumi glares out of the corner of his eye and I’m afraid I’m gonna get shut down. I know I could technically stay even if he doesn’t want me to, but I’m also fully aware that he’ll drag me back by my hair if he has to. I could also lie about it, but he would see right through that. It’s frustrating. 

I just want to practice more, to improve. Even if Iwaizumi stays after and forces me home way sooner than I want, that’s still better than nothing.

“There is no we today,” he says finally, looking down at his stuff instead of at me. “I can’t stay. I have a paper due and it’s not even halfway done. And you really shouldn’t stay alone,” he adds, looking over at me with an expression I know only I’ve seen. It’s soft, worried.

“That’s okay, Iwa-chan. I’ll be fine by myself,” I argue easily, really not ready to give in. I know he doesn’t believe me. “You worry too much.”

“And you overwork yourself.” He glares. “You’re gonna hurt yourself one of these times.”

“I won’t, I promise!”

“If I don’t stay, you’ll never leave,” he argues back, not caving. That’s not true. I’ll go home. At some point. “I’ll probably walk in for morning practice to you still in the gym practicing serves.”

“I’m not gonna pull a damn all nighter in the gym, Iwa-chan! Have a little faith!” I respond with a pout.

“You’re right, you’ll be passed the fuck out on the gym floor,” he says, throwing his bag over his shoulder. “I guess that’s not technically an all nighter.”

“Iwa-chan!” I realize this is going nowhere, so I change up my tactic and try to cater to his worries. “What if I text you when I get home, will that make you happy?”

“Oikawa--”

“If it’s late and I don’t text you then you can call me or something. Please?”

Iwaizumi considers this for a long time. He’s nervous. Most people can’t see it, don’t even think he’s capable, but I can see it clear as day, the way his hands fidget with the strap of his bag. Finally he sighs and shakes his head. “Fine,” he gives in reluctantly, his face showing he’s probably forcing himself to go against his better judgement. “But don’t stay too late, and don’t think I won’t come back here and drag you home if you’re stupid, Shittykawa.”

“It’ll be fine,” I say with a smile.

 

I throw the ball up, run, jump, swing. The ball smashes the court with an insane amount of force, but it’s out. Again. Fuck, why can’t I get this right? The more power I use, the less control I have, which is frustrating, and that’s why I’m here. If my success rate could just improve the tiniest bit, that would be great. But so far, it’s been disappointing. 

As I land, my right knee reminds me, yet again, that it’s done for the day, pain shooting up my leg upon impact. If there are good days and bad days, this has been a bad one for sure. I let myself wince because there’s no one around to see it, which is honestly relaxing. After all, half the battle is keeping up the charade.

“Just one more, I just want to get it in one more time,” I whisper in the silent gym, almost a plea. I sigh, allow myself a few seconds to just breathe. My knee throbs, but I pick up another ball. One more.

The throw is good this time, really good. Despite the increasing pain, I grit my teeth and force my run to be just as steady as always, each step landing with a purpose. Every other step makes me want to scream, but it was a good toss so I’m sure as hell not stopping now. I make sure my jump is still powerful, launching my body in the air with all the usual grace. I swing as hard as I can, as hard as my body will allow me, and the ball cuts through the air. I watch as it lands in, right by the back line, and I’m genuinely happy for the half a second before I hit the ground.

I hear it. 

You can actually hear it when I hit the ground, echoing in the empty gym. Something in my right knee goes, I can feel it go immediately, and I can _hear_ it. The sound of my world ending. 

I crumple immediately to the side, my body refusing to carry my weight as the loudest scream I’ve ever heard in my life is ripped out of my own throat. Tears flood my vision quickly as I roll onto my back, instinctively grabbing for the knee and letting out another shout when I quickly realize that only makes it worse. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” I murmur pathetically, letting my foot hit the ground as gently as I can manage, keeping my leg bent in a way that hurts the least and putting my hands over my eyes as I fucking sob like a child, more curses flowing out of my mouth like god damn poetry, everything echoing back to me like some kind of sick joke.

Oh my fucking god, this is terrible. This is the worst. This is so bad. Those are the only thoughts my mind can supply me right this second, besides the constant flow of _this hurts so fucking bad._

And it does. Oh it really does. Sweet mother of god, does this fucking hurt. The pain is unbearable. It’s excruciating. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever felt, I can’t even begin to describe it, and there’s no position that makes it any better. Any movement of my leg grips me with pain in a way I have never experienced. So I lay on my back on the gym floor and I fucking cry, because what else can I do? 

I’m alone.

“Shit, are you fucking kidding me?” I yell as it hits me, as I finally remember that I’m a fucking idiot who forgot my cell phone all the way in the club room with my bag. Who am I kidding? That’s not why I’m an idiot. I’m an idiot because I stayed after when I should’ve gone home. I’m an idiot who stayed even though I knew I would be alone if anything bad happened. I’m an idiot who knew something bad was about to happen but kept pushing anyways. And now, I’m an idiot, crumpled up and useless on the gym floor in a pool of my own stupid tears with no way to call anyone or go anywhere. I know all that, but it’s not like it helps me now. 

“God fucking dammit! What do I do, what do I do, what the fuck do I do?” I whine, getting softer until I can barely hear myself. Wow this is pathetic. This is probably the dumbest shit that’s ever happened to me, and it’s my own damn fault. I can’t call anyone. That’s my fault. I shouldn’t be here in the first place. My fault. I sure as hell can’t go anywhere. God, even the tiniest shift in my weight makes me cringe, so I’m really not looking to move from this spot anytime soon. And you know what? That’s my fault too. 

And, like the cherry on top, no one is at the school. Not a soul, though I scream a few times anyways. Never thought I’d get to this point in my life, but here I am, screaming for help to absolutely no one. When you’re watching a movie or something, you’re always like, ‘why are they screaming when there’s literally no one to hear it?’ Well let me tell you, when it’s all you can do, you try anyways.

I stop when my throat hurts and my willpower drains, and it’s now that I wish Iwa-chan were here. Even if he hadn’t been able to drag me home by now, even if he hadn’t been able to prevent this by being here, he would at least be here to call for help and hold my hand until it arrived. He could look at my knee, touch me with the gentle hands only I know him to have as he makes his own assessment of the injury. He could tell me it will be okay, that everything will be fine. And I would believe him.

But he’s not here. I’m alone. And I did this to myself. Hell, I practically asked for this.

So I do the only thing I can. I wait. I lay there on my back, the body heat from exercising leaving me slowly, because if this wasn’t already bad enough, now I’m cold too. Tears roll down the sides of my face even though I’m not really crying anymore, although my breathing is still stuttering and skipping, which is annoying as hell. I try my hardest to ignore the pain, but it’s literally impossible to do that, so I force myself to focus on the definite truth that tomorrow there will be morning practice in this gym. People will come here in a matter of hours and someone will have to find me.

***

I sit on my bed, mind practically numb at the amount of times I’ve read this essay over, still not happy with it and still not sure how the hell to fix it. Maybe I should take a break, do something else and come back to this when my mind can actually focus on the words. God, I don’t even know how long I’ve been doing this. Did I even eat dinner? Shit.

“Fuck analyzing literature,” I grumble as I rub my eyes and flop down on my back. I sit up and close my laptop, about to go eat something when my phone starts ringing. I don’t know who the hell is calling me this late though.

“Hello?” 

_“Hajime, are you with Oikawa?”_ says his mom’s sweet, slightly worried voice through the phone and I think I can actually hear my heart stop beating.

I never got a text from him about him going home after practice.

_“I know you two usually practice late together.”_

I never even checked. Not once.

_“So, I was just wondering if you were still at the school or if you’re on your way home.”_

I’ve been doing homework since I got home. I didn’t even think about it. I didn’t even think about him. And now.

_“Since he’s not home yet.”_

Now he’s not home. He’s not home and he’s not with me and my heart isn’t fucking beating because I don’t know for sure where he is. 

_“And he’s not answering his phone.”_

I’m supposed to keep him safe and I don’t fucking know where he is or if he’s okay. And I have this feeling, this absolutely sickening gut feeling, that he’s not okay. And I’m not there. I let him stay alone. I could have stopped him.

 _“Hajime?”_ she asks, more worry creeping into her voice. Shit.

“Um, hi, sorry,” I start, trying to find words, trying not to sound like I’m about to throw up, or cry, or scream or something. For her sake. “He’s not with me, I couldn’t stay late today.” I should have. God fucking damn it, I should have. “But I know he stayed to practice, so he should be at the school,” I continue, steady and calm even as my hands shake, trying to reassure her even when my gut is telling me something is horribly wrong. “I’ll go see if he’s there.”

 _“Oh, you don’t have to do that, it’s late. I can go,”_ she says, polite as ever, even as I’m already up, pulling on a sweatshirt in a sheer panic, running down the stairs and throwing on shoes. _“I was just seeing if he was with you, don’t worry about it.”_ Don’t worry. That’s funny.

“No, it’s really fine,” I say, struggling with my left sneaker. “I have a key to the gym anyways,” I lie quickly, like that’s some sort of valid argument. If he were in there the door would already be open, but this seems to be good enough for her. 

I barely hear the end of the conversation as I sprint down the sidewalk, my mind reeling, lungs heaving, tired legs pulling me on autopilot. God, I’m such an idiot. I shouldn’t have let this happen. Stupid. So stupid. Fuck, I just hope he’s okay.

Please be okay.

***

At some point it crosses my mind that I probably won’t be able to play for a while, which is really frustrating considering the whole point of this was so I could play on the court. God, I really fucked this up. Now what? I guess it depends on how bad it is. It feels bad, it _sounded_ bad. I’ll never be able to get that sound out of my head. But I have no way of knowing right now how serious this really is. Maybe it just needs rest, or maybe it needs surgery. Shit. That’s an actual possibility. That requires a lot of recovery time. Well, no matter what, this is going to require recovery time, which fucking sucks. I just want to play. God, I’m such an idiot.

I should have just listened when I had the chance, should’ve stopped when my body told me to. But I have to work hard, have to push through. It’s in my nature. Other people don’t understand, I’m not perfect. 

And now here I am. In the worst situation I can imagine coming from this. 

Maybe I’ll be out for the season. That would suck. I was just starting to get ahead and now I’ll be catching up all over again. What a waste. I’ll have to deal with the immediate consequences, then rest and recover until I can even think about practicing. I’ll probably have to do physical therapy or something, ease back into it. That’ll be irritating, especially just watching until then, because obviously I’m still gonna go to practice. I can’t imagine not going, even if I just have to sit there. I’ll still be a part of the club. I am. 

I can still use the time to watch people, how they play. It’ll be useful, though not as useful as actually playing with them. Eventually I’ll get to play, though. That’s probably gonna be harder, now that I think about it, especially at first. I’ll be out of shape, out of practice, behind in skill, not synced that well with anyone. 

It’s like learning to walk again. Well, part of it literally will be. That’s weird to think about. Holy shit, I’m not gonna be able to walk for a while. That’s gonna be a hassle, even without thinking about volleyball. My damn room is on the second floor. This really sucks.

Either way, I can get through this, I know. I’m sure I’ll get back into the swing of things. I’ve always been pretty quick to adapt. Actually, volleyball will be more like riding a bike I think. You never forget or whatever. Maybe by next season I’ll be fully game ready. Hopefully.

Or maybe it’s worse than I think. Maybe I’ll never be able to play again. 

The thought hits me hard, makes my stomach drop, rips the air from my lungs, to even think that I might have just thrown everything away for this one stupid day. I would go through all the recovery and yet I wouldn’t be able to play again, I would never stand on another court, never set another ball. Never play with Iwa-chan. 

To think, after almost a decade together, that this might be the last year we’re a team. That the last time we play together might have already passed without me knowing. We haven’t even gotten to play a real high school match together. I can’t wrap my head around it, any of it. I scream in sheer frustration, frustration because there’s a strong possibility that I just ruined my career, my dreams, everything I’ve ever fucking worked for, everything that made me happy. And for what? 

Suddenly, the gym doors burst open with a sound that startles me enough to make me flinch hard, which makes everything hurt, which makes me roll my head back and close my eyes tight. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t need to see to know it’s Iwa-chan. Half of me is completely miserable and half of me is so relieved that he came.

“Oikawa!” he screams, sounding out of breath and broken. It hurts me a little bit. His voice isn’t meant to sound that way. “What the fuck happened?”

“Iwa-chan.” I try to just say it, I really do, but it comes out like a whine and I realize halfway through that I’m choking on another sob. It hits me like a fucking wall all over again and before I know it, I’m crying on the floor in the same way I was before. I’m not even a crier, almost never. Not my cup of tea usually, but this isn’t exactly a normal day for me. Between the severe pain in my knee and the realization that my whole life could be over now, I think I have a pretty good excuse to be a crier, just for today. 

Still, it’s weird. I don’t even know what it is that hit me so hard and so suddenly. I’ve already done all my crying, I’m kind of sick of it at this point, exhausted almost. But something about seeing him here just makes it feel more real, like this can’t possibly be the nightmare I’m hoping it is because Iwa-chan doesn’t even get to look that distraught in my worst dreams.

“What is it?” he asks in a slight panic, as he approaches from behind me.

“My knee.” Wow I sound horrible, my words a watery mess. That’s another reason I hate crying, but I can’t bring myself to care.

He’s by my side in an instant, kneeling by the bad knee in the worn out old sweatpants he was probably about to sleep in before he came here, telling me it’s okay, that everything is going to be fine, relax, take a deep breath. I try, I breathe in deep and let it out slowly, looking through blurred vision as Iwa-chan looks at the hurt knee, swollen and red. 

“How long ago did this happen?” he asks, concern in his voice.

“I don’t know, I was practicing for a while before it happened,” I croak out. I honestly don’t know. Maybe an hour, it hasn’t felt longer than that. Hell, maybe it’s been ten minutes. Or two hours. I don’t know.

“How did it happen?”

“I was coming down from a jump serve and it just... went.” There it is again, the horrible sound of it playing in my head just at the mention of it. “I could literally hear it.”

“Can you move it at all, have you tried?” he asks gently, looking up at me with focused eyes. 

I shake my head and swallow, trying to get my voice to be steady again. “Well, I mean I could probably physically move it if I had to, but I can’t shift at all without it hurting way more than it already does,” I manage to say, my words still wobbling slightly. “I forgot my phone in the club room, that’s why I didn’t call anyone, but even if it were in the gym with me I don’t know if I would have tried to get it,” I add. 

“It hurts that bad?” he asks softly, almost sad, and all I can manage is a nod, biting my lip. I don’t trust my voice when he looks at me like that. “I’m gonna call you an ambulance then, I don’t want anyone else trying to move you.” So he pulls out his cell phone and calls, and the whole time all I can feel is this overwhelming relief. This will be okay. His voice is calm and steady like it always is, explaining the situation carefully and efficiently before he hangs up and looks down at me. “They’re on their way.” He sighs like he’s just as relieved.

He pauses then reaches out his hands slowly. My eyes widen and I inhale sharply in what would be a flinch if I actually had the capability to pull my leg away. He glances at me with an expression so sad I don’t even want to look as his hands stay hovering above me.

“Oikawa, just trust me for a second, okay? I won’t hurt you, I promise,” he says gently, yet with a confidence I can’t mistrust. I just nod again. “Where does it hurt the worst? I just wanna see.”

“Over there, like on the inside,” I say, pointing. He tilts his head and examines my knee, compares the swelling of it to the good knee. Finally, he looks up at me again, his hands still hovering. He doesn’t say a word to me, but I nod in response, and slowly he touches the injured knee with a lightness that I can barely feel. Not many people know how gentle Iwa-chan can be.

“This doesn’t hurt, does it?” he asks, moving around slowly, barely a whisper against my skin. 

“Not any more than it already did,” I answer, wiping the half dry tears off my face.

He nods. “I’m not gonna press hard, okay?” he assures me calmly as he applies a tiny bit of pressure, but I feel it. I wince a little and he sees it, easing off immediately. “You felt that?”

“It wasn’t bad,” I reply, for some reason feeling the need to brush it off, to let him know he didn’t really hurt me. It really wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t good either. 

“But I saw your face. You felt that?” he asks again, firmer.

“Yeah.”

He sighs, moving closer to my head, sitting so he’s slightly behind me. “I just wanted to know how bad it was,” he explains as he crosses his legs. “Here, put this under your head or something,” he says. I turn my head to see him offering me his sweatshirt, which he must have just taken off. “The gym floor can’t be that comfortable.”

I take it but instead of doing what he says, I throw the warm fabric over my torso because it’s only gotten colder in here. It feels so much better to be under the sweatshirt, especially since he was just wearing it. It’s like a hug. “Sorry, I’m really cold.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Here,” he says, gently prompting me to lift my head and shifting so I can rest it in his lap. Honestly, it’s much better than the floor. I hadn’t even been focusing on the strain in my neck until now. The same careful hands as before, make their way through my hair as we sit there, on the empty gym floor. It sure beats sitting here alone.

“Why did you come back?” I eventually ask. I reach out my hand and he takes it without a word.

“Your mom was looking for you, dumbass,” he answers with less bite than usual in his tone. “I’m not the only one you worry when you do shit like this ya know.”

I hadn’t even been thinking about that. My mom probably wasn’t more worried than any other night I’ve come home late from practice, but she also assumed I was with Iwa-chan. He was probably worried out of his damn mind, because he knew I _wasn’t_ with him. He probably ran here. 

He warned me about getting hurt and overworking myself. He tried to stop me, to protect me, and all I did in return was give him a fucking heart attack. What a great friend I am. And I broke my promise. I said I wouldn’t overwork myself, wouldn’t get hurt, that I would be fine alone. What a lie that was.

“I’m sorry,” I say eventually. Guilt isn’t a feeling I experience often. If something isn’t my fault, it’s not my problem. If it is my fault, I own it. No guilt needed. But right now? I feel guilty, and it’s gross.

“You don’t have to be sorry. You’re a fucking idiot, but I am too so we’re even,” he grumbles.

“What do you mean?”

“This shouldn’t have happened,” he explains, sounding mad, but not at me. “I shouldn’t have _let_ this happen. I should’ve been here, or we should have both been home.”

“Iwa-chan, this is not your fault,” I argue.

“I could have prevented it. I said--”

“Me too!” I say before he can go on blaming himself for my mistake. Honestly, if he thinks he can carry the burden from my huge fuck up, he has another thing coming. I’m not letting that happen. “I had about a million chances to prevent this today. At the match when I started to feel it, getting off the bus when I wanted to limp but I didn’t, in the club room when I argued to stay, between every fucking serve when my body was telling me to stop. But here we are anyways. Look, I know you want to blame yourself, but this is my problem that I caused, and I should be the only one paying for it.” He doesn’t say anything.

Yeah, I’m gonna pay for this alright. As the minutes have passed, I’ve realized I’m getting closer and closer to finding out what’s wrong, finding out how long I have to wait to play. If I ever get to play. It’s making me nervous. 

“What’s wrong?” Iwa-chan asks, looking down at my face. I kind of wonder what expression I was making to make him ask.

“I’m scared,” I admit honestly, my own voice uncharacteristically quiet. I don’t like using the word scared. Things don’t often scare me. I can be intimidated by things occasionally, nervous, anxious, angry. Fear though, genuine and real terror? That’s rare for me. Very rare. But right now, being able to visualize my whole life crumbling before my eyes because of this half a second? Yeah, I’m fucking terrified. “I think… what if it’s bad? I don’t know if I’ll even be able to--”

“Don’t,” he cuts me off, his own voice straying from its usual steadiness. “Don’t fucking finish that. You don’t even know what’s wrong yet so don’t you dare start saying shit like that. I don’t wanna hear it.” It sounds like he could cry and I don’t even know what to do about that, what to say. There’s a long pause as we hear the sound of the ambulance pulling up, car doors opening.

“We’re not done yet,” he whispers, almost to himself.

***

Please be okay.

We’ve always been a team. No matter what, it’s been you and I. Us against the world. We started this shit together, don’t make me finish it alone.

Please.

***

There are still people who think I don’t have to try hard at anything, just like before. If only they all knew how fucking hard I’ve had to work just to stay on this team. Either way, that hasn’t changed. The difference now is that people on my own team actually fear I’ll try _too_ hard, overwork myself, even after all I went through. I guess to other people it might seem like I still over do it sometimes.

My knee is functional, I can play, but there are still bad days. I still push through it like I used to. What can I say? It’s who I am. Call it a bad habit. That’s what worries people, I think. What’s normal to me looks risky to the people around me, especially now that I’ve been through a legitimate injury. Maybe they think I’m just reckless, but the thing is, once you’re unfortunate enough to find your own breaking point, you’re extremely aware of where that point is. They might not know it, but I stay well away from that point.

Part of that is for myself. Obviously I never want to go through anything like that again. Contrary to popular belief, I value my body. I can’t play without it so I’m really not looking to wreck it again. I also value the second chance I have at the dreams I thought I lost forever. I will never take that for granted. 

Despite everything, today I get to wear the number one jersey, a captain’s jersey at that. I look down at my knee brace as I sit on the floor, at what’s written on the inside. Three dates. The day I fell, the first day I could walk again, and the day they cleared me to play. I look at them before every match.

The other part of it is for the people that count on me, the people that trust me, stand behind me, believe in me. Those are the people that get hurt the most when you think you’re only risking hurting yourself. Those are the people you have the potential to let down the most. I never get too close to my breaking point because those are the people I play for. Play with.

“Let’s go,” Iwa-chan says, holding out his hand as he looks down at me. He has his uniform on, finally number four again, like he should be. I smile, pulling on my knee brace and taking his hand. He yanks me onto my feet and I dust myself off. 

“Let’s get this year started, shall we?” I say as we walk towards the court together.

The court I still get to stand on.

**Author's Note:**

> (I like to imagine that Iwaizumi wants to be an athletic trainer. I also like to imagine that this is why.)
> 
> Thanks for reading, hope you liked it. And thanks to anyone who leaves me comments and kudos and stuff!


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